Traveling Abroad
by Twilight-Deviant
Summary: Dorian takes Sawyer with him as he travels to Paris to meet an old friend. Slash. Dorian/Sawyer. Twoshot.
1. Gay Paris

**Title: **Traveling Abroad**  
Pairing: **Dorian Gray/Tom Sawyer**  
Summary: **Dorian takes Sawyer with him as he travels to Paris to meet an old friend.**  
Warning: **Slash**  
Rating:** K+

I'm so glad that I finally finished this. I started it over a year ago. Didn't think that it would be so long, and when I did the final word count, I thought that it would be best to go ahead and just make it two chapters, to split it up some. Technically though, this is still simply a really long oneshot.

First person perspective. Dorian's point of view. Because it is disturbingly fun to write. Disturbingly, I say!

* * *

**Chapter One: **Gay Paris

.:o:..:o:..:o:.

We've never traveled abroad together before, not since the League that is. I've funded Tom on his petty little trips; whereas, I rarely depart the comfort of London, seldom even my own home. He is not as content to sit in the darkened house, reading or amusing himself in ways a proper gentleman does. No, he would rather chase tigers in Africa. If I didn't know any better, I would swear he had once again picked up the trail of following in old Quartermain's footsteps. Though, he claims to have been there before (prior to knowing of the old fool), having great adventures in an air balloon, to which I have no choice but to question with doubt. Sometimes it is so very hard to know when he is telling the truth, and that assertion _is_ rather… farfetched.

I hate it when he tours Africa, always bringing back souvenirs, always bringing back tattered clothes- shirts I've spent a pretty penny on, completely destroyed- and always, _always_ bringing back a terrible scent of dirt, sweat, and animal. I don't let him within a meter of me until he has taken a long, fragranced bath. Honestly, I despise his trips to that continent so much that I one time ordered him a ticket on a boat to Spain- under the guise of it being an African ship, of course- just to show him that yes, there were other places out there in the world. He sent me a telegram four days later. Apparently, he didn't think it as funny as I.

I apologize. It appears I've digressed. I simply cannot pass up the chance to speak of, or mock really, Sawyer's unexplainable love for a place where civilization is nothing more than a dust covered idea. As I was saying though, I rarely depart London. In fact, when I announced to the boy that I would be leaving, he was so intrigued that he agreed to come with me before I had even asked. Actually, I don't think I was going to. I doubt he will enjoy this trip as much as I. It is France, after all. Paris, to be more exact. City of love and I can already feel my stomach churning at the idealistic drivel.

I step off the boat in a rush. I suppose he got a bit of cabin fever and merely wants to step on dry land again. However, running from our room before even finishing to pack up his things is unacceptably maddening. Now I have to chase him down, an increasingly difficult task because I keep losing him in the bustling crowd. The delusion I live under that his boyish curiosity will one day fade is exactly that, a delusion. When I spot his matted blond hair at last, it is several paces away, and he is conversing with one of those crooked salesman known to loiter around the docks and swindle travelers. I can see now that I will have to take away Tom's pocket money.

I grab the boy's shirt collar and sigh loud enough so that he may hear me over the roaring crowd. "We have a schedule to keep," I growl, now taking his hand in mine, much like I imagine a mother would her child, so that I may not lose him again.

"A schedule?" he asks me and I can hear the snickering in his voice. "Who goes on vacation and makes a schedule?"

I figure it is best to tell him straight away, so that he will not complain later. Turning abruptly, I pull him close, so as to make myself heard. "I ordered a carriage because I am not _walking _around all of Paris, Tom. They should be here to meet us soon and our luggage needs to be ready and waiting so that we can make it to our first stop on time." His brow lifts in an unasked question then, and I know that it is whether or not I intend to make him haul all of the luggage to said carriage. Clearly, he has learned much about me in these past four years because that is exactly what I expect.

"And where is this first stop, _Monsieur _Dorian?" he asks, crossing an arm across his abdomen and completing a mock bow. Now he's just making fun of me. I almost laugh though when a considerably large and hurried man slams into Tom from behind and almost knocks him down. Helping the boy steady himself, I hold him by the shoulders and try to eradicate my smirk at his little episode.

"I've made an appointment for us both at a popular tailor." I see Sawyer's shoulders, eyes, and very being sink at the idea of being fitted for clothes, remaining stationary for long periods of time not his strong suit. However, I will not be seen with him if he does not comply. He can stay in the hotel for all I care. "If you're not wearing the latest fashion of Paris," I explain, though I know he is barely listening, "your wardrobe is outdated by at least four months."

"And is that why you brought us here?" he questions, rolling his eyes. "To shop?"

"Shopping is merely the first item on our agenda, a necessity so that we do not stick out like sore thumbs. If you had listened any of the five times I told you on the boat, you would know that I am here to visit an old friend. He recently acquired a villa in the city. While here, I also thought that a visit to the famous Paris Opera House wouldn't hurt my dwindling touch with high society. Perhaps while we're in this city," I add this in simply to goad him on, "you'll see what practiced manners are like. Maybe you'll even pick up on them."

Whatever witty remark he was going to reply with is lost when I catch sight of our carriage resting far from all the chaos of passengers still disembarking. I wave off the words that never even make it to Tom's lips and walk back towards the ship to retrieve our luggage, not happy that we are now behind schedule.

Our reservation at the garment maker's is given away, though we are only ten minutes late, and I am forced to bribe the man so that we may make it out of here today. It is not as though I mind too much though; I simply take the money out of Tom's pocket as it _is_ his fault. I let the irony of the fact that he received this money from me in the first place die as his pocket falls limp and the lips of the receptionist grow into a crooked smirk. We're shown into the salon moments later.

Tom squirms and avoids the hand that tries to measure him, unacquainted to the process of a custom fitting. I find the whole procedure nothing more than a brilliant excuse for him to finally stop wearing his generic clothing that hangs from his chest and his legs in loose folds. I'm even almost tempted to throw away those clothes once he is out of them.

I see something akin to a blush spread out across Tom's face, and it is followed by pleading eyes that beg for a rescue as the man does his inseam. I offer him a reassuring smile, though it may come off as anything but considering how pleased I am to finally have my lover in decent clothing. Clothes that he will not be allowed to dirty and certainly won't be permitted to wear on some African safari.

When he finally steps down from the small platform, it is with a huff. He is not happy with me, but that is nothing new. I rise from my seat so as to get my own measurements done with, and as I pass him I see just how tired Tom looks from the trip here, despite the energy he always seems to be abundant with. Perhaps I should have made the appointment for tomorrow. However, there's no use considering such a thing now, so I step up to be fitted.

I pay for our clothes, five suits each, and am assured that they will be ready by mid-afternoon tomorrow. With the amount I have just put down, I would expect no less.

My plan to visit my friend can wait until tomorrow. Tom looks like he is about to fall asleep in the carriage. I've almost forgotten what it's like to be tired, but the blond nodding off beside me provides a small memory of it. "Just ain't fair," he mumbles into my shoulder, now using it as a pillow.

"What's not?" I ask, shutting the curtains to the carriage's windows before pulling him closer to me. "That even though you did nothing exhausting during the ship's voyage, you are still on the verge of sleep?" I run my hand through his hair absently, not out of affection but simply because I want to. He takes it as a loving gesture anyway and leans into the touch like a cat to the warm and gentle hand of its master.

"No," he responds, and I must wait through his silent yawn for the answer. "It's not fair that you're not tired." He treats my curse as a blessing, and I do not speak up to voice my disagreement. After all, there are the moments I enjoy because sleep is not demanded of me. I'm loathe to say it, but this is one of them. I do, though, envy his ability to fall into sleep so fast, to beckon it to him at a moment's notice. At night, when I do decide to slumber, it is not such an easy task for me, and I find myself doing exactly what I am now.

Already, he is gone from this realm, that of consciousness, and I am left behind to watch him, observe him with no questions or comments. His lips are parted scarcely and a quiet, shallow breath escapes them. The blond, wavy strands of hair are in his eyes. They continue down his shoulder and now onto mine. Perhaps while we are here, we can do away with this tangled mess he calls hair. I'm not insisting it be cut, no, simply given some shape or order. I like to run my fingers through his hair too much to let it be gone.

The boy stirs slightly and now his arm rests in my lap. I allow my hand, the one which isn't imbedded in his hair, to run over the invading palm, my fingers traveling lightly over the rough skin. If my roving fingertips disturb him in any way, it is not visible upon his face, so I continue. His fingernails are short, almost down to the quick, and the small bits that remain are nothing more than a temple for collected dirt to proclaim sanctuary within. It almost crosses my mind to hold him down in the hotel and clean them with a scrub brush. I think I might, actually. Now if only the task was easier done than said. I may have the benefit of muscles that do not tire easily, but this boy always wins out in the end in terms of strength. For that I blame my weak frame that was here long before my portrait was but a brushstroke.

I turn Tom's hand over in mine and see the dark, but healing, knuckles that came from a dispute a couple of nights ago aboard the ship. "If you want to kiss me, wait until we're back in the cabin," I'd argued futilely, always futilely. His later defense was that he thought no one else would be up and above deck so late at night. But wasn't that why I warned him in the first place? Just in case?

The man was rude, his speech was slurred, and he had probably been kicked out of his room for his vulgar attitude after the consumption of alcohol. Yes, the liquored mindset of the man is not an uncertainty in this equation. I could smell him several yards away, forget the overpowering stench of his breath when he was in my face, in my coveted personal space, pressing an accusing and insulting finger into my chest with a heavy jab. His hateful and offensive words, the terms he used, fell upon my ears as but nothing. The power of a single individual, a stranger at that, has long since left my realm of concern. But to Tom, who has lived only a fraction of my life thus far… Well, I suppose he took it personally.

He swung at the man with his fist and later said that it was because he was protecting me. My hero. I momentarily considered this cretin wise when he stayed down, barely moving on the deck floor. I admit though that I have been wrong before, and now I have been again. The man soon wobbled back onto his feet, determined not to lose a fight to a- I'll leave his word choice out. Admittedly, I wanted to throw the brute overboard and be done with it all. We were so close to the banister, and a drunken man taking a fall provides no suspicion towards foul play. However, I allowed Tom his fight, his reclaimed honor at its triumph, and only watched, no more than a mere spectator leaning against the very handrail I would have thrown the offender over.

Memory of that night once again banished from the forefront of my mind, I run my fingers over the unyielding silver of the ring on Tom's hand. Not a wedding band, no, of course not. It is only the illusion of one. Don't think me a romantic because it was not my intention when I gave it to him, even if he may have taken it that way. As I've said, the boy travels a lot- even if not to another continent or country, than perhaps simply down the street, but out of my sight nonetheless. I've seen the looks he gets when he is within my presence- though I must still take credit for a good amount of the earned looks myself- and can only imagine these women's flirtatiousness when I am not there to usher Tom away. So you see, it is not out of sentimentality or a promise of a life together that I gave him the ring. I simply want my things to remain just that, mine. I've found that this small, silver band, this tiny circle, is an excellent way of 'marking one's territory', so to say. I only wear a matching one so as to belay any suspicion from Tom.

My hand untangles itself from his hair and moves as a ghost down his jaw. I find a noticeable layer of stubble that is normally completely absent on his smooth, boyish face. Too hasty this morning? Eager to get off of the boat already. I know I was.

The carriage jerks suddenly and the coachman's words only reiterate something I already know from the settling horses and the still cabin: "We're here."

The hotel is lavish, grand, and, unfortunately for my wallet, expensive. No matter. Price has rarely been a problem since I began playing the stock market, or as Tom calls it, "easy money". True, perhaps, but that is only because I make it _look_ easy. After so many years of watching people, governments, and businesses of all kinds, monitoring what stock will do well is child's play to me at best, cheating at worst.

I duck back into the cabin and shake Tom's shoulder. His nap is over now because I will not pay the coachman more money simply to let the boy finish out his slumber. Bright eyes catch the evening sun, and when I am content that they will stay open, I return back to the sidewalk, watching as our luggage is pulled off the top of the carriage. Tom joins me- a deep yawn in his throat- soon afterwards. He reaches for a suitcase before I stop him, gesturing at the bellhop standing by the door, eagerly on his way to help. Of course, Tom assists anyway, loading the luggage onto a cart as if he is being paid for it. I choose to ignore it, telling the coachman to return tomorrow around lunch.

Pulling Tom up from the sidewalk and through the doors, we walk to the check-in counter where I announce our reservation on a room with two beds. It doesn't matter that only one will be used. I am only glad that the boy knows to keep his mouth shut for once. After all, he'd almost let slip on the boat that, "One bed's all we need, so why pay extra?" I suppose the hurried hush he received from me had been enough to tell him what I intended though. Every morning we ruffled the blankets of the unused bed, as if there had been an occupant, and awaited housekeeping to tidy it back up. I may not care what others think, but if it threatens to upset my way of life, I would rather step around the puddle, so to speak. Perhaps Paris is more accepting of our private deeds than London, but why chance such a thing? Why risk it?

Our room is on the seventh floor, and I am grateful because I am already imagining the view. My heart may be but a shadow, but I can still appreciate, can I not? I can still await to see the look on Tom's face when he glimpses the city best described as a moving painting for all its beauty.

"Are we just sitting this stuff down?" the blond asks from behind me, following my lead on the steps. "Don't you wanna go see your friend? Although, I gotta admit, I thought I was your only friend." There's a smile on his face. I hear it in his mirthful voice.

"Hah hah," I remark dryly. "Who said you were my friend anyway? Last I checked, you were nothing more than a temporary amusement who burns through my money and keeps me company in bed." Cold. Perhaps too cold. The comment is said though, and while my time may not move forward, it does not move back. The words cannot be unsaid. I worry only because I know he will remember this, remember it and take it as an icy stab to the heart. So I console him as best I can. Falling back, we walk together in step and I look him in the eye. We are equals now, and I find it better than any apology for the demeaning remarks. "I thought you would like a rest before we go. The Count can wait."

"A count?" he questions, and even though I know he does not care for titles or the prestige of the upper class- coming from a place that has no such thing- I notice slight intrigue in his voice. "So he's a pretty important guy then?"

"A very important man," I answer, and it is true. "You will probably never meet a wealthier soul, save kings, no matter how long you may live. He is a learned gentleman and his manners are faultless. We met years ago at a party in London. Of all the people there, I was attracted to him the most because only I could see what he thinks to be hidden." Tom's eyes are almost wide with interest now, and so I feel the need to torture and keep him in suspense. We are at our room and I make a big show of fumbling with its key.

Finally, he asks, blurts out really, "So what is it?"

The key is in the door now and I turn it with a smile. "He is heartless," I say, opening the entrance into a suite that is covered in the rich orange of a setting sun. "He gives gifts, he smiles, and he will entertain with grand stories that almost seem impossible, but you believe because he has bewitched your senses with his amiable charm. Yet his heart… is a block of ice. And if you are stupid enough to have cursed yourself by being on a list he calls 'enemies', then may God have mercy on your soul." I pause, dramatic effect maybe, and take in the expression on Sawyer's face like a sponge to water. He appears almost horror stricken that I willingly take him to this man's abode on the morrow. "Our carriage returns at noon tomorrow, so try not to sleep in late."

Tom shakes the fright from his form in a way that is almost comical and enters the room at last. "You seem to be a pretty big fan of this guy," he comments, and if I must pin an emotion to the sentence, it would be jealousy.

"You've nothing to worry about Tom." The door is closed at last and I am allowed to kiss him as I like, not sweet, nor caring, but still tender and soft. I pull away but my hands remain on him, in his hair, on his face. "Any flattery or emotion I put into describing the Count is mere narcissism. He reminds me of myself, you see." And perhaps that is why I consider the man my friend, one of few. "You I enjoy too much to possibly need another." It is true. Of course it is true. Even still, the boy seems to contemplate as to whether or not it is meaningless sweet talk. I think he remembers that pointless charm is not a trait of mine because his face lights up as the words finally reach him, seconds later. What a tragic boy I have created when a word of loyalty is as sweet as a poem of love.

"Come over here," I say, leading him to the terrace, though he looked like he had wanted to kiss me in that moment. When I reserved this room, I put special emphasis, and slight threat, on getting a suite with a balcony that faced the city. And that is what I show Tom now.

The hour is right, maybe even so precise as the very minute, and the sun hangs in the air finely, its rays stretching into the sky for one last hurrah before it leaves the City of Lights to provide its own illumination. Every color is present on the horizon as the clouds hang within it like pastels in an artist's toolbox. In fact, the view of the sky from here is so wondrous that I almost forget there is a city beneath it. But it is there in all its glory, a proud capital showing its riches to travelers. The buildings stretch on forever, until they become one with the sun, and the colors they present are even grander and more diverse than those of the sky. There is noise in the streets and it leaps from building to building, floor to floor, until it reaches us, and what you think would flaw the atmosphere of this breathtaking city only enhances it by reminding one that it is a real place.

It is only my remembrance of this town from before that allows me to tear my eyes away from it. When I have had my fill, I turn to Tom, who is still taking in the city as if he were a beggar set before a grand feast. He is mesmerized by all his eyes land upon, and I can almost see the eagerness that is boiling inside of him to explore every inch of it. Today is not the day for that though, and I feel the need to bring him back to the hotel room before he runs outside and I am unable to stop him. I dare not have a repeat of the ship so soon already.

"We will be here for two weeks," I remind him, a gentle hand massaging his shoulder. "Perhaps more if I feel the need. Now, come inside so we may unpack." He is almost loathe to do it, and I know now that I will find him on the balcony often, if not in the very streets themselves. Removing my coat and my vest, I place them over an armchair, anxious for the new Parisian clothes that await me tomorrow. "You've been to Paris before, is that right?"

"Um, yeah," he responds slowly, his gaze still drawn through the window and outside. "Briefly, and no view like that one that's for sure. But, I mean, it was night, and I was just a _little_ distracted down there in the dark." What I intend only as a quaint smile at his remark soon bubbles into a light chuckle, and I know Tom is happy. He loves it when he can actually make me laugh.

Despite what he may say though and how he may praise the view, I know that he would give it up- with little persuasion- for just a little of the excitement he had on his first short-lived visit here.

.:o:..:o:..:o:.

He has fallen asleep again. Actually, I made him go to bed. The boy was walking around with his eyes half closed and a yawn on his lips every other minute. And now I sit upon our bed, book in hand and his head on my lap. Though I had planned on a nice dinner in an expensive restaurant, it can wait. After all, it's not like Tom is properly equipped with the right manners to eat correctly just yet. Maybe it is better we have skipped this meal.

My eyes aren't tired but, at the same time, I feel like they should rest. As luck would have it, my most current chapter in the book has just ended, excellent stopping point. I will confess now that I am not a Mark Twain enthusiast. The only reason that I started reading his works was to learn more about Tom's America that this man writes so much about. Closing my book, I none too gracefully move the boy off of me and onto his own side of the bed. I believe I will try for sleep as well.

* * *

Sorry if it seems like I skipped around some. It was intentional, though I wish there had been a better way. I simply like to write different things about their relationship as I think it would happen. (I do so enjoy playing with them. Obviously.) And aside from writing short, pointless vignettes, throwing them into long stories at the best available opportunity is my best shot.


	2. Dinner with the Count

**Title: **Traveling Abroad**  
Pairing: **Dorian Gray/Tom Sawyer**  
Summary: **Dorian takes Sawyer with him as he travels to Paris to meet an old friend.**  
Warning: **Slash**  
Rating:** K

I keep thinking that maybe one day I'll get a wild hair, make Dorian OOC, and have a sweet/fluffy fic. But for some reason, no matter how hard I try, such a portrayal does not come to me. I might be able to do it one day though. Here's hoping. Here's hoping to an actual multi-chapter fic one day too. Hahaha. *crosses fingers* Although, I do tend to write my LXG fics in somewhat the same universe as each other. They could all be seen as a string that could be put together, though not in the right chronological order. Does that count as multi-chapter? Haha. No, I suppose not.

* * *

**Chapter Two: **Dinner with the Count

.:o:..:o:..:o:.

When morning comes, I can honestly say that the city does not take my breath, as it almost did last night. But still I sit on the balcony's terrace, enjoying my breakfast and the view.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" Tom grumbles sleepily, running his hands through his blond hair as he steps out into the morning sun. He's wearing his nightshirt, but not a single button is done up, leaving a rather pleasing view of his toned chest. Yawning one last time before he fully awakens, Tom stretches his arms out before taking the seat across from me at the table.

"The fact that you were still asleep," I comment nonchalantly after I have swallowed the piece of pastry in my mouth, "told me that you were still tired. I thought that I'd let you wake up on your own this one time."

"Huh. Well, that's real sweet of you, Dorian." The sides of his mouth curl up into a charming smile that houses nothing but cheerfulness. I wave it off.

"I don't want you falling asleep when we're out again today." He doesn't believe me and I don't know why. I spoke the words with enough detachment- and slight aggravation. But there's that playful smirk, unwavering on his face. "Tea?" I ask, the small, china teapot hanging in my hand a physical subject change.

He shakes his head. Still smiling. "I could go for some coffee though. And some more food." He looks around as if our terrace were a restaurant and he has but to motion for a waiter in order to gain service.

"There's enough to eat right here," I gesture at the table's layout, a fine spread of various foods that is more than sufficient for the two of us.

"But I'm so hungry," he pouts, and though I find such a childish strategy of getting one's way slightly pathetic, I prefer it to the smile. "We didn't eat dinner last night."

"Do what you want." I give in. "However, you're buzzing for room service." I point towards a button next to the room's main door that is used to summon the help.

.:o:..:o:..:o:.

"I hate ties," Tom sulks, and to his mumbled complaint I roll my eyes.

"I had _no_ idea," I reply sarcastically. Tying a tie is always something I have to do for him, and what comes to me as second nature is turned into quite an arduous task with his squirming, not to mention the shouts telling me that I'm choking him.

After a brisk lunch, we strolled around the streets for an hour or two before I finally announced that it was time to revisit the tailor's salon. Tom seemed less than thrilled. Of course, now I'm not exactly ecstatic about the fact that I have to dress him _first _to make sure he's wearing it right.

Of the ones I bought, I made sure to put him in the finest suit because after this we are calling an audience with my friend. I sent him a letter early this morning requesting such. The reply was an assenting one, unsurprisingly. The Count would never consciously, nor unconsciously, deny anyone anything.

When he is fully dressed, Tom walks around our suite- showing himself off maybe?- and does not miss a single mirror he passes without looking into it. "Careful now," I jest. "There's only room for one vain person between the two of us." His mouth hangs open as if he wants to disagree, but he only stomps off into the restroom. "Do something with your hair while you're in there," I shout, buttoning my own vest.

A ribbon tying back his hair was not what I had in mind, but when he comes out, some time later, wearing it, well I would be lying if I said it was anything but attractive. He spends the next long stretch of time telling me to hurry up and stop "primping" before we're late. However, I shrug off his irritating comments, fully capable of telling time.

Not that it matters. I _am_ rushed in the end because the Count has sent his own personal carriage to retrieve us. The boy who is sent to tell us of its arrival does nothing short of sending Tom into a fit of laughter, him finding humor in the fact that even the Count is rushing me along. I shrug, a sour look on my face, and tell Tom that I was almost done anyway.

The boy seems nervous on the ride over, scared or intimidated of the man we are calling upon, I'm not sure. When the carriage pulls up alongside the Count's residence, though, even I feel a little overwhelmed. It is easily as big as our hotel, and its architecture and adornments make it seem the most luxurious house in sight, not an easy task as the other manors are also quite lavish.

We are greeted at the door by one of his loyal servants- whose name I never felt the need to remember- and he ushers us inside. The man bows low before leading us to the Count's den. He departs in search of his master, leaving Tom and me to ourselves. I sit upon a settee and the boy joins me. My subtle fingers find their way to his back and I massage through the suit gingerly, causing him to relax into the seat.

"Mister Gray," I hear before I turn to see the owner of the house in the doorway far to my side, looking at us with eyes as dark as the night sky and an empty smile steadfastly in place. "Forgive my absence until now. I was with another guest."

"Monsieur Count, think nothing of it." I stand and Tom is nothing but a mimic, at my side in an instant. The Count covers the distance between us and extends his hand to shake mine. He then looks at Tom momentarily and I believe he is waiting for an introduction. "This is an acquaintance of mine by the name of Tom Sawyer. He's an American and I figured Paris would be a good view for the boy's growing knowledge of the world."

"Yes," he agrees, "I don't believe any one man should go without the gift of this beautiful city. Mister Sawyer," he holds out his hand to Tom and the boy takes it with a smile.

"Tom, this is the Count of Monte Cristo. Look as hard as you like, but you'll probably never find more of a gentleman." Shameless flattery, yes, but that doesn't mean that my words are without truth.

The three of us converse for quite a while, and I know that Tom is beginning to see what I had mentioned of the Count's endless charm and mesmerizing stories. He becomes so at ease in the man's presence that his tongue soon turns as quick and common as it is when it's just the two of us. He asks where the man is from, finding no discernable accent, and is rather dissatisfied when the Count replies, "Everywhere." A quick lesson, but an earnest one, I learned of this man is that he will tell you anything about everything unless the subject is himself. I, however, find no problem in that. We all have our secrets.

So interested am I in our conversation that the lateness of the hour goes unnoticed until the Count announces that dinner will be served soon.

A momentary pause settles over our exchange allowing that, for the first time, I can hear the music of a stringed instrument. "Would that be dear little Haydee?" I ask, remembering a lovely little girl the Count kept in his household. I've only ever met her once or twice, he is so very protective of her, but the sound of her music playing is as enchanting now as ever.

"Oh, yes," the Count answers, a ghost of a smile tugging at a corner of his lips. "I mentioned earlier in passing that you would be visiting us this evening, and she seemed overjoyed. Perhaps you should pay her a quick visit." I nod and stand, pulling wrinkles that do not exist from my new suit. "If we are not here when you return," he comments as I turn to leave the room, "then we have most likely gone on to dinner."

I acknowledge his last sentence and turn the corner. However, I am no fool and can feel when I am being gotten rid of. Pressing against the wall just outside of the den, I listen for anything the Count would say in my absence. Several minutes of silence pass and I feel he is onto my presence because, like me, the man is not dim-witted. I can only imagine how awkward Sawyer is growing in his seat as the quiet continues on in unsettling waves.

At long last, the Count ends the stillness and clears his throat before asking, "How long have you known Dorian?"

I find myself slightly taken aback by the mundane question that could have been asked while I was still within the room. Perhaps I am only being unnecessarily suspicious about him wanting me out for a reason. Still though, regardless of the normality of the query, Tom stutters an answer out as if he were a shy schoolboy called upon in class. "Umm… about- about four years now, I guess."

"And he still has not grown tired of you," the Count jokes with a mirthful tone. "How unlike him." I may think highly of this man and compare him to myself lightly, but who is he to make such assumptions on my character? Four years is nothing to me. I couldn't honestly be expected to tire of my backcountry adventurer so soon now, could I? "And what was your life like in America?"

"Pretty good," Tom replies, quicker this time, and I can hear that he has calmed once more. "I had some good friends." He pauses, and I know the boy is taking a moment to silently mourn his childhood friend, lost to the Fantom. I have asked Tom about his past several times, making conversation in the long hours of our time together. His fallen comrade and their youthful experiences are a frequent subject. I know how he cared for him. "I almost gotta thank Dorian for keeping me out here though. I spent most of my childhood doing… less than savory things. It wasn't till I took a break from my job- oh, I was in the American Secret Service- that I even realized how little it even sounded like me."

"You seem quite accomplished to be so young," the other comments, pausing for some time before going on. "Forgive my prying curiosity, Mister Sawyer, but how long have you lived with Dorian?"

Standing in my place, I wonder how the man has pulled that question from nothing, how he has come to that conclusion. I become rather heated at the inquiry as well. It is not my reply that the Count is waiting on though. If it were, I would give it with a growl and tell him that whomever I keep in my house is none of his concern. Tom, however, is not as ready to deny the man an answer. He clears his throat nervously, as if the action will call me back, before saying, "Same, four years. There isn't really another home open to me in Europe, and Dorian is kind enough to offer his while travel around." Kind? How can the boy not see it is out of selfishness that I keep him with me? He is only my amusement.

"Oh, then it is indeed quite unusual that he hasn't grown bored of you yet." The rumbling sound of a low chuckle is the successor of this statement and the Count's laughter further enrages me. "Please, don't take that as an insult, Mister Sawyer. I do not imply you are dull or uninteresting. After all, I have spent only a short couple of hours with you and I can see you are quite the contrary. Perhaps that is why Dorian keeps you in his company though. After all, it is not hidden knowledge that he rarely admits people to be around him. Such a recluse." Only now can I bring myself to forgive the Count for his rash words spoken earlier. I ignore the question of why his last remarks put me at ease because he did not pay me a compliment, only flattered the one I keep in my company. But, then again, I suppose it is a nice praise to my tastes.

"He is that," Tom agrees, quiet laughter in his voice. I should leave now. Dawdle and my presence will become missed. Of course, that would simply give them more time to talk about me behind my back. I should really go though and see Haydee. However, beautiful as she may be- not to mention my very reason for leaving the room- my ears keep my feet strongly in their place, eager to hear what they would say of me.

"You seem fond of Dorian," the Count states, resuming the conversation after a pregnant pause. "It is enough to make one wonder why." Perhaps I underestimated Monte Cristo, maybe we don't play off as subtle as I think, or it might even be that it is a question anyone can arrive at after those previous answers. Whatever the reason may be, the shock of his next inquiry in the invasive interrogation reaches my very bones and stills me with surprise. "Why pursue him when he is incapable of returning your feelings? He'll only cast you aside." My form is stopped in all motions, even that of breathing.

The cold words and all the demanding tones they carry strike not as an insult, or as an offensive assumption of my personality, but rather as a truthful premonition for what is to come. It is true that my relationship with Tom has not yet run stale. The stories we narrate to one another of our experiences are still as vibrant and new as the very day we met. While our touches have become familiar, they have not yet become tired of the other body beneath them. And though I may occasionally grow weary of his presence when he is underfoot, it does not mean that it is unmissed when he wanders off on his expeditions.

It does not matter though. None of it matters. This _thing _we have… this "relationship", it can end any of a multiple of ways, and I believe I've seen every one as it plays out in my mind. I'll tire of him. Maybe he'll tire of me when he understands that any time we spend together is not an investment, but a waste. He does not seem to think so though. His response says as much.

Fool.

"I ask myself that a lot," the halfwit says. His voice is not what I thought it would be. He does not sound hesitant. He does not sound depressed. He does not even sound surprised by the Count's sudden question. I would love to turn and glimpse the face that associates itself with those words, so that I may see if it reflects what his tone portrays: poise and assurance. He talks with a determination, and I would stake a small fortune that it is because he has rehearsed what he is saying. Most likely so that he may recite it to me, should I ever ask. And maybe that is why he tells the Count. He is tired of waiting on me to ask a question I never will and only wishes to tell his well prepared monologue to _someone_. "Dorian's not soft or warm. He's not nice or considerate. So I must sound crazy, right?" There is a pause and I wonder if our host has actually nodded in agreement to Tom. "But… way I figure it, the easier it is to get someone, the easier it is to lose them. A girl who says she loves you after just one outing has probably said it to lots of guys before, ya know. Someone that doesn't… probably understands what a big word it is, makes it harder for 'em to commit. So… by that reasoning, Dorian sounds like a winning bet, don't ya think?"

What a lovesick puppy. Nothing more than a young dog looking for a master to pet and coddle him. Thinking on love and all it implies with a mindset similar to that of an infatuated woman. No, perhaps it is worse. As innocent and wanting as a woman's claim in love may be, there is always the understood need that she wants a man not only for his love or affection, but the depth of his pocket and the strength of his back. She wants the security, housing, dependence that come with his love. A woman would use a man for her own personal gain and self-preservation, whether she was aware of it or not. However, with Tom it is not so easy. Nothing ever is. He never allows me a simple answer. No, he could say he loves me and have no ulterior motives. Though I take care of him and pay his allowance, he is still a man, a headstrong man. If I booted him out of my door, he would have a job within an hour, a shabby little apartment in another three. He does not proclaim his want of my care towards him for any selfish reason other than the fact that he longs for it to be answered.

That statement would flatter most. However, I pride myself in fitting deep into the category that calls itself "the minority". All it means to me is that he loves for a foolish reason, and that is love itself. Indeed, it speaks volumes on his idiocy. What is there to love me for? My looks? No, Sawyer may appreciate my appearance, but he is a far cry from being vain, unlike I. Well, it certainly isn't my personality that he should like me for. I do not deny my arrogance or callousness.

I suppose his motive is simply an unclear enigma to me; however, that does not mean I feel obligated to accept his feelings. Accept them out of what, I ask? Confusion, coercion, remorse? No, I have no reason to validate his spiel of fondness for me. All so he won't have to suffer the heartbreak of losing another? Because once he has secured me to him, like a sailor to the mast during a storm, I will not go away from him? Does he honestly consider me so safe a bet? I would prove him wrong right now, send him away from me at once, if his presence still did not bring me such amusement.

With great resolve, I manage to sever my concentration and attention from where they rest- inside the confines of my own mind- with a stubborn determination. In my moment of inward reflection, it would appear the conversation of my eavesdropping carried on without me. Monte Cristo's response to Tom's silly speech is something I suppose I must now consider as good as lost to me forever, for I shall not ask either what was said.

The private exchange between my friend and my lover has progressed from improper and prying questions to lighthearted banter of the past exploits between them. I fear how long I allowed myself temporary leave of my senses when such a drastic change has happened between my bouts of attentiveness.

I listen a moment and then a moment more. Indeed, the conversation has turned quite friendly and gay. The Count regales Tom with stories of Rome, France, and countries throughout the east. He dwells, of course, longer on our current location, naming and describing wonders that Tom must see while in Paris. In exchange for the Count's narratives on past exploits, my blond lover is excited to offer up his own knowledge on America and Africa. I do not know if our host has visited these places or not, for his intrigue towards them and their wonders seems quite genuine. Though, I do not believe the Count would ever offend a person by dismissing what they say or outdoing it with his own knowledge on the subject. But who am I to assume on this man? Moments ago I would not have thought him rude enough to ask such a personal question concerning my love life.

I believe there is nothing more I can take from the relaxed mood their talk has found itself in. Yes, when the subject of myself is for sure dropped and forgotten from their tongues, I finally ease off of the wall I have been leaning against so intently. And, though it speaks not a word of me, the music from down the hallway I had noticed some time ago calls me just as persistently as Tom and the Count's conversation had. It seems I have let my feet lay still and my ear stay invading for so long I had almost forgotten our dear beautiful Haydee in the other room.

Quietly, I slip away from my secret post.

.:o:..:o:..:o:.

When I return to the entertainment room later, I am hardly surprised to find it empty of the two of them. They no doubt went on to supper, as the Count said they would. After all, I did spend some time with Haydee. Her beauty is quite captivating to the eyes, and my stories- catching her up on the goings on of England- were equally captivating to her ears. After that, I troubled her with a request: one of my favorite songs played upon her instrument. Her fingers move as nimbly as any professionals along the strings, if not better.

Lingering in the parlor only for the necessary seconds it takes to walk through it, I join them in the dining room after receiving directions from a servant. Monte Cristo is sitting at the head of the long and daunting table, naturally, and Tom sits contentedly on his left. At first I cannot make out the topic of their discussion, but given the Count's delighted chuckle, it is one of pleasant nature.

I join them, taking my seat on the Count's right after he has gestured towards it with his hand. Though Haydee has calmed my temper and outrage from earlier, their conversation is still fresh in my mind. I would fix Tom with a most disapproving glare right now if he were but looking at me. He seems embarrassed. But perhaps that is because of the fact that my presence reminds him all too clearly of the unfortunate and awkward truth that the Count knows about our relationship. No one has ever known before. No one of consequence, as it were. Who have you to blame though, Tom? Who indeed.

With a schooled determination, I force myself to settle into a more easygoing and cheerful mindset so that I may still make the most of the evening. Not the easiest of tasks as I am having what should be a civil meal with a "friend" who cannot mind his own business and a lover who keeps his on his sleeve, unmindful of _my_ privacy. Yes, it is a rather difficult task, cooling my nerves, but I'd like to think that the passive approach many years of life has given me helps.

Tom, still not looking at me or the Count now, ceases in whatever it was he had been saying, but to little consequence. An awkward silence around the Count of Monte Cristo is as rare as a snowflake in the summer. "Tom," so now he is calling the boy by his first name, "was telling me that you intend to stay in town for another two weeks at least."

"Yes," I respond without interest. I swirl the glass of wine that has been given me around in its cup, watching the deep, red liquid slosh threateningly close to the rim of the wineglass before flowing back down. "So is the plan. I leave my home so little that I am most likely going to postpone our leave."

"Marvelous," he smiles in response, pausing to sip his own drink before continuing. "I am learning that if one is to remain stationary for a time, Paris is a wonderful place to consider." There is a subtle smile, an almost unseen upturning of the lips, that plays across his face then, and it is less than savory. I wonder who, or what, he is thinking about. Perhaps it pertains to his own reason for visiting Paris if he thinks of the subject synonymously with the city.

Time passed by with the standard and expected conversation points. The Count asked how our trip thus far had been. I replied accordingly, as well as remarked on how lovely his home is. I also touched on the affairs of London. Tom spoke very little, and when I turned the conversation to him with a feigned blind eye towards his uncharacteristic quietness- for I am supposed to be ignorant of their previous conversation, am I not?- his face would flicker a subtle red of humiliation as he answered the barest minimum expected. Our meal passed by thus until we found ourselves over dessert, eating some sweet cake that I found far too rich.

"And what of your plans during the rest of your stay?" the Count asks, taking a small bite of his dessert. "Are the normal tourist points too ordinary for Dorian Gray?"

"Probably," I laugh, wiping small flakes of cake from the corners of my mouth while doing so. "But I believe Tom will enjoy them. And I may still enjoy him enjoying them." I smile and rest my napkin nicely on the table, done with eating. "I do plan on indulging myself with a little opera though. Is it still as magnificent as I remember?"

"Oh, it is and then some, I imagine. However, tickets are most likely all sold out until well after you leave." I dejectedly wonder how the house could be doing so well. I remember there always being a couple of unfilled seats come show time. "The house has a new female lead, beautiful in both face and voice, I might say. She is quite the rage. Even the worsening threat of some 'opera ghost' is not deterring the relentless ticket buying."

"And it wouldn't have deterred me either," I lament, slightly saddened that I may not view a performance. "How depressing. I suppose I could still make the most of what remains in my agenda."

"I wouldn't dream of you having to make due," the Count says, flashing me a smile. "The tickets are sold out for weeks, but you are in luck, having a friend with a permanent hold on his own box. They always send me the tickets long before time. Tell me the night you wish to see the show, and I'll give them to you."

"You're too kind. I couldn't," I remark, making a show of waving off his generosity. It is exactly that though, a show. Yes, I am grateful and surprised by the offer, but now that I know of its existence, I can't imagine leaving without said tickets in my hand. These are simply the hoops of society I have to jump through to get them so that I may seem a proper gentleman. It is nothing but a well choreographed- but still very tiring- dance of civility.

"Nonsense," he responds, shaking his head in a vehement refusal to accept my false rejection of his offer. "I'll have someone get them right away. Simply tell me a date." His hand hovers over a bell to his side for a second- most likely to call a servant- when Tom stands up and throws his napkin on the table.

"I'll get 'em. You don't have to bother nobody." He steps to the side and pushes his chair in, further dismissing himself from the table.

His want makes the Count smile. "Is he always so forward?"

"Oh, yes," I chuckle. "He's always very hands-on." Humoring Tom's obvious desire to step out of the room for a moment, I mention a day sometime next week I had planned on attending the opera. After that, Monte Cristo gives him directions to his study and the name of a servant who could be of assistance if needed.

He walks off with a nod of his head, and I can see already that he will dawdle on intrigue alone. Not ten feet outside the door and he has stopped to admire a painting.

The Count and I sit in silence for several moments. We say nothing, but it is a comfortable peace because, for some reason, we are at ease around each other. Perhaps because we are both patient men, seeming to have nothing but time on our hands. After awhile though, he breaks the calm that had set.

"Were you pleased with the answers you overheard outside the parlor, Mister Gray?" I do not allow myself to as much as raise a brow at how the Count is aware that I was but around the corner during the brunt of their conversation. I also do not even consider insulting him by saying I was not or by asking what he means.

"The answers are not anything I couldn't have guessed, or perhaps heard, eventually," I respond, making sure to not pause from his question but a second so I will not further flatter the fact he knew I was there. "I suppose the real question is: were you pleased with asking such probing questions, Monsieur Count?"

"Very much indeed," he laughs, running a hand through his dark hair. "I beg your forgiveness; however, I couldn't help but ask questions of someone that _you_ keep so close to you. He is utterly entertaining though. And he seems quite taken with you." I roll my eyes and huff quietly. "What is it, I wonder, that makes you so hesitant towards the boy?"

"And what is it, _I wonder_, that makes you feel the need to push the subject?" Slightly irate by now, I have more than had enough of his interference into my personal affairs for one night.

"Is it your blatant personality differences? Opposites attract, so science teaches us, but maybe you are afraid the two of you will eventually begin to mesh unpleasantly," he continues on, talking what seems to be mostly to himself, ignoring my growing temper as well as disregarding my question. "Or perhaps you use your immortality as an excuse to further yourself by pretending you are on a higher plateau than him, that you are better than him and he should know it at all times."

I stare at him for a long moment, glaring really. He is looking directly into my eyes, and I hope but a fraction of my indignation makes it back to him. At last, convinced that he will not leave me be until he is satisfied, I answer his inane questions.

"Hmm, if I had to pick one of your silly theories I would have to say... both. Or perhaps they are not even a different question." He raises his brow in an odd sort of confused, yet approving, assent to continue and so I do. "I have lived already more than my fair share of years. While Tom… well, he's practically a baby. Not to mention he was born and raised an entire ocean away from me. How are our personalities supposed to line up in any way whatsoever?" I sigh and stroke my brow in a calming way, so as to allow my thoughts a chance to collect.

"Do you enjoy the difference between the two of you?" he asks evenly, like his only purpose at the moment is making me map out how I feel. I hate him for it. "Perhaps you secretly revel in relief of the fact that you do not have to impress him. He is quite different from the people you normally acquaint yourself with."

"Yes," I respond slowly, blandly, thinking as I speak. "He is quite different." Not looking at the Count, I bury my face in my hands, digging and rubbing the palms against my eyes. From my miserable position at his table, I find myself speaking in an almost trancelike state.

"My life is as a desert. It stretches on and on for miles, offering practically no aesthetic changes to me as I walk along through the sandy wasteland. There is no end in sight and no companion who stays for more than the blink of an eye. Tom is a... rare oasis in the desert, offering relief to my eyes that have long gone searching for something other than sand to land upon. However, resting at the oasis is merely a temporary stop. It offers no real salvation, only momentary relief to my tired form. And when I approach the water, I may hold it in my hand, but eventually it will trickle through my fingers. That is what Tom's life is to me: a temporary escape that will fall away, despite my best attempts to hold onto it." I pause to reflect on what I have just said, unaware I even felt that way. Clearing my throat noisily and with a big show, I add, "Honestly though, who says it's even worth picking up?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," he replies lightheartedly. I think that I can almost _hear_ that empty little smile of his in his voice. "I think someone could do a lot worse than him. How rare is it to find someone so happy and full of energy?" I lean back into my chair with a scoff, unconvinced he even understands. "In all honesty though, I do not know who I am more jealous of, you or him."

I flash the Count a devious smirk and raise my brow teasingly. Well… he had his chance. I chuckle lightly through my lips and he contributes his own little titter. "Life would be easier," I jest, still laughing, only quietly and distractedly. It would be. I can imagine life with the Count of Monte Cristo, for once _being _taken care of instead of my usual routine of brooding alone or looking over my little fool. "But I would never do that to him." What I hadn't meant as a verbal remark- only a mental belief added to my train of thought- is voiced as one regardless. I do not usually like uttering such nonsense. Then again, there are many things I have said tonight that I did not intend, that would not usually fall from my lips so easily.

"One must wonder when and where Dorian Gray learned such loyalty." Of course he would comment on my slip. Indeed, it seems my blunders are the only things he hears.

"I do not appreciate your remark, _Monsieur _Count." And I do not. Granted, I may not have the cleanest record of fidelity and devotion, but to hear such words- carrying an undertone of judgment, at that- from a _friend_ is more than insulting. He raises his hand in apology, however, and my learned manners force me to accept. "If you _must_ know though," I continue on, as if unaffected, "it was probably that boy. A trickster with a small child's mentality, but he has a… good heart. And loyal, yes. Loyal to a fault. In fact, it's almost sickening." We share a joking smile over that before I hear slow yet anxious footsteps in the hall outside. "Well," I say, "speak of the angel."

And there, not three seconds later, the object of our discussion becomes visible to us. Tom pokes his head around the corner of the large doorway first. His wavy blond hair follows him, hanging at an angle from his head, still contained within its ribbon. Next, his arm makes itself into the room, an envelope held in its hand. After that, he wastes no time ushering the rest of himself in as he can see that he is not interrupting us from any matters deemed private.

"You had no trouble finding them, I hope," the Count smiles. He then wipes the corners of his mouth, though I observe nothing had been there, and lays his napkin down before pushing back his chair. The large and ornate throne of a seat makes only the lightest of sounds, as if it is scarcely more than a ghostly image, as it brushes against the floor. I follow his example because dinner has been over and I believe it is now time to retire to another room for drinks.

"Well," Tom chuckles bashfully, "had a little bit. And I got a smidge lost, too. Big house you got." He laughs again, running a hand timidly through his hair and pulling several strands out of the tie before he remembers that he had pulled it back.

I draw a tired hand down my face in exasperation at his lack of forethought. However, I decide to ignore the incident, instead rounding the table towards him to pull my coveted tickets from his loose grasp. I would be lying though if I said that my hand did _not_ deviate upwards and pull the ribbon completely out of his hair in a quick and seamless movement of fingers. It is better down than hanging half out in disarray like he had just awoken after forgetting he had gone to bed with his hair up. Or worse, like he is fresh from an insane asylum. I can all but help the faint snickering that falls from me at that last thought and, to my chagrin, it brings the attention of the two. I dismiss it with a wave of my hand, however, and they are content to not press the matter.

Monte Cristo offers his most sincere apology to Tom for having him wander the long halls of his mansion- prone to labyrinth-like tendencies, he confesses- in a disoriented confusion. To that Tom only shrugs as we are guided through the aforementioned passages and back into the parlor where we had first conversed before having supped.

Conversation picks up as if there had been no interruption in our captivating and enchanting intercourse from earlier. Tom's inadvertent tour through Monte Cristo's abode seems to have turned his thoughts more inward than they had been when he silently moped at the table in all his abashed glory. I am torn between deciding if his returned jollity is due to the fact that he has realized his silence was just a silly thing or if he has decided that he may be content with making himself at ease in the company of one who knows our secret, unprecedented as that is. For whatever reason it may be, both Tom and the Count, as well as myself, have fallen into an entrancing chat again. The only difference this time being a rare bottle of fine Hennessy Cognac.

Once more I find myself so hopelessly adrift in our talk of past exploits, meetings, and plans for future adventures that my only alert to the time is the sequential chiming of a large clock near the door which is almost perfectly disguised against the dark wood of the wall- save its white face, now slightly yellowed with age. Why its previous songs eluded me on the striking of past hours, I am not sure, but this one I hear. And, as if a timeless spell has been broken on the room, Tom releases a long, noisy yawn like he had been cued to do so.

"The witching hour," Monte Cristo states solemnly, pensively, glancing at the clock that I think he, too, is noticing for the first time. "Though we have no ghosts or supernatural figures to worry about here."

"Only the ghosts of the past," I comment in a way that had been intended as light and joking. It is not. My somber voice is nothing but a chord which seems to strum through all of us as an eerie reminder of pasts better left forgotten. Clearing my throat with a loud cough, I attempt a- perhaps futile- dismissal of the darkness that has descended upon the room. "It has grown late. And Tom is nothing without his rest."

"Hey," the blond remarks loudly, though I think by now he is at the beginning stages of catching on to when I do things simply to ruffle his feathers. He must be because he lets his outrage fade soon enough, dying down to nothing more than faintly heard grunts under his breath. Somewhere amongst the mumbles I hear, "I'm not a little kid..." But he is. And always will be in my eyes.

Not wanting to appear as if he is rushing us out, our host waits until we have both stood before he joins us on his own feet. I nod towards the doorway, permitting him to lead us to it. Holding up the envelope where it rests in my hand, I cannot help but to thank him again for the tickets. "Now I have only to hope that they put on an interesting show," I jest, to which the Count grins, a smile which still does not reach his dark eyes.

"I'm sure they will." And if I actually had any doubts to this before, they are now banished from my mind. Because when has the Count of Monte Cristo ever been wrong? "Dorian," he beams, patting my shoulder as we stand in his antechamber, "you've no idea what an honor your company was this evening." He drops his hand between us and I rest mine within it for a gentleman's farewell handshake. I am taken by surprise when the palm of his other hand encloses mine from above, almost trapping it there. "I would be regretful if I did not tell you of your second option." I look at him quizzically and he answers the question before it leaves my lips. "The answer to your oasis conundrum. The water does not have to flow from your fingers until there is nothing left to hold onto." He moves my hand in his and runs his fingers intimately along my smooth palm, like water falling from my grasp. "Drink the water," he states simply, folding my hand and placing it against my chest. "Keep it with you."

I feel there is the warmth of a scarlet blush upon my cheeks from the contact, so distracting that I hardly give his words much thought. More sentimental foolishness. As if I do not get enough of that from Sawyer.

"And Mister Sawyer," I hear the Count address Tom, their hands entwined in a handshake as well, though far more appropriate and far less friendly. "I doubt the most talented author of this age could pen with correct words the pleasure it was to meet you, so I dare not try. Know that it was quite the delight though." I see Tom nod his head dumbfounded, not quite sure how to respond to such a compliment. He merely utters his thanks and replies with a, "You too."

Opening the door for us, Monte Cristo motions to his carriage already waiting outside. How its coachman knew to be waiting, I've no clue. "My driver will return you to your hotel. And if you find a good service hard to come by in the city, don't hesitate to ask- because I will not hesitate to loan- for my carriage."

I thank him again, at this point unsure if I will take him up on his offer, and begrudgingly allow him to close the door after one last farewell. Tom waits exactly one second before exhaling an elongated breath, deflating his shoulder and relaxing fully at last. "Boy, that was something," he comments, trying to play it off nonchalantly. "Any more friends you want to introduce me to? Hmm? Maybe a 'Monsieur' Victor Frankenstein or a Count Dracula? You know, while we're on the mainland over here."

"Not right now," I smile humorously. "This week is Paris." I brush his shoulder in a habitual way, though there is nothing there to dust off, and begin my descent down the front steps.

"Yeah, Paris." He scoffs in a way that intrigues me, enough to make me turn around at least. I can't see his eyes, because they face downwards, but his arms are crossed irately as if I have offended him with some terrible act. Honestly, the list could be rather extensive. "To see the Count of Monte Cristo. And just what was all that back there?" He motions back towards the hallway and stoop we had just been standing upon.

I think for a minute before it even occurs to me what he is talking about. Surely it must be the Count's parting actions. He's jealous, I observe with a sly smile. "I don't know what you're talking about," I dismiss, trying to hide my smile now. Toying with the boy is such fun it should be classified as sinful. I turn away and the next thing I know, he is upon me, spinning me around to face him.

"Oh yes you do," he growls, trying- yet failing- to control his emotions as he holds me still by my shoulders. "He was pretty… familiar with you right there. Like maybe the two of you have…"

He trails off and I further the pause, donning a contemplative look like I am trying to figure out what he could possibly mean, as if I didn't already comprehend. "Oh," I exclaim, like it has only just occurred to me. Lowering my voice, I continue alluringly. "You want to know if I ever committed," I put my hands on him now, drawing the boy closer to me, whispering in his ear for the lingering effect, "certain _acts_ with the Count, in dark corners, maybe?" I lean, closer still, into Tom, banishing away what space did lie between us. My hand ghosts in a calm way up his neck, fingering his wavy hair where it hangs all around him in chaos. Our lips but a centimeter away, I chuckle, amused and content. "Silly boy."

Releasing Tom, I make my way into the carriage, settling in for the ride. I watch him from the open door, rooted to the spot by his confusion, lost as to what just transpired.

After a brief moment, he pulls himself out of his stupor all at once, like a match being struck into life. "Wait a minute," he calls, hanging out of the door before finally climbing into the cabin. His face is almost completely controlled by a suspicious and confused frown. And what is not taken over by that conveys the same emotion with a furrowed brow. "You didn't answer my question."

_Fin~_

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How many Victorian novels can I mention before this fic ends? Hmm…

_The Count of Monte Cristo_ is my favorite book, and if you haven't read it yet, then I strongly recommend you do. This fic would most likely make more sense as well. And I should probably apologize to those who haven't read it and might have been a little confused. However, I absolutely love the Count, and a crossover with him, Dorian, and Tom was more than a little tempting, I'm afraid.

I didn't want to put this in the crossover section because (though I have just written one) I am not a big fan of them. And, not to sound like nothing more than an attention seeker, I feel like it will get more notice in the main section. Besides, what is LXG if not one giant crossover itself? Writing this was practically canon (minus the man love part).

I hope you have enjoyed. It has been so long since I last wrote some Dorian/Tom, after all.


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